


gold star student

by beeapocalypse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (in the most slight mentions theres nothing Actually going on), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Season 3, its pre max mustermann getting GOT by julia+trevor, the unknowing is discussed briefly but doesnt Happen, theres . not much i can tag this w ghhghw its just him sitting in his apartment mulling over stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeapocalypse/pseuds/beeapocalypse
Summary: in the time before the unknowing and after a bout of higher education, max mustermann doesnt have much going on(this is just a bunch of barely developed ideas abt max mustermann+how he perceived his relationship w dr lionell eliott LOL)
Relationships: Max Mustermann&Lionell Eliott
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	gold star student

**Author's Note:**

> put off studying to slap this out whgehg i care abt the anatomy class SO much dude i rlly love the idea that they viewed dr eliott as smth more than just Some Guy+liked him all the more for the utter terror he had for them  
> ALSO theres tiny tidbits of stranger stuff in general bc i love the evil found family so much theyre the funniest thing in the whole podcast

Max Mustermann wasn’t sure he would ever get the hands right. Looking down at them, his eyes couldn’t focus on any glaring mistake, but it was the  _ sense _ of wrongness that pervaded his mind. Were the knuckles too swollen, the veins too prominent? It was a feeling he took great pleasure in- the same sort of thrill he chased after that had him taking just a little too long between breaths and forgetting to blink among others, glossing over the tiny things that the more base parts of the human brain would pick up on while still keeping his cover. 

But the hands weren’t intentional. It was something he noticed abruptly sitting in his studio apartment, a bout of staring at the wall broken up with a glance down at them. True height of entertainment, that. Were the sparse hairs on their backs too thick, the fingernails too opaque? It became a thing to ponder over, in the terribly long hours between shifts. 

He had to chase after that delightful discomfort of others on the clock, never after hours. The hour of the great reckoning, of  _ The Unknowing _ was approaching fast, and Max Mustermann understood the necessity of caution. He was so close, so terribly close that he could  _ taste _ the beautiful world that was nigh upon them, and could think of no greater horror than even the slightest possibility of a hunter catching a whiff of him because he got overzealous in service of the Stranger ( _ or saw his hands- was it how loud the joints popped, the width of the palm? _ ). So, he terrified whatever schmuck had been brought in for questioning that he himself could smell  _ wrongness  _ on ( _ purely human cases were so terribly  _ boring  _ to him- no element of the world he was from, it was like those laughably poor sitcoms that had played on his TV before he had pawned it off to afford a collection of books on the art of singing- not that he needed the practice, of course _ ), or he lounged around the breakroom where no man was brave enough to confront officer Mustermann and tell him he had duties to get to, or he pawed through paperwork just long enough to shuffle up names for a bit of good natured confusion later on. 

Humans were in constant motion up to the point that they weren’t- sleep or death, Max Mustermann knew the two were near identical. Like ants who’s nest was trod upon by an uncaring boot, they always found some small worry to wither away over. He knew the advice for any such fool who had nothing to fill the hours- get a hobby. The closest he had was choosing that day if he ought to wear the plain wedding band he had picked up from the pawnshop to work that day or not- just another little detail, a constantly disappearing vow of love, to keep his coworkers on edge, a little joke- or stare at the wall as he hummed along to a song that was unknowable, incomprehensible yet so utterly ingrained into his being. Or contemplate the hands ( _ the cuticles- were they too thick? The wrinkles too shallow? _ ), though that one was new. 

He had stopped wandering down to the pawn shop a short walk from his apartment weeks ago. Had caught the eye of a man in the crowd and realized his gaze had  _ lingered _ , and Max Mustermann felt dread at the possibility of discovery. Laughable- a Stranger terrified of discovery! He flaunted his bizarre anatomy in its subtle ways, twisted his vocal chords in ways never meant to be thought of and bared his teeth past the point of possibility, turned and gestured with  _ wrong _ hands with a pace of speech just slow enough that each sentence had enough space in between that any listener would get nervous, would think he would simply not speak up again right before he did! But the man’s eyes had lingered in a way that was not out of any mounting dread at the realization of wrongness, but in simple curiosity. And as their eyes met and Max Mustermann had stilled his quick pace, he saw the beginnings of realization. Of accusation.

So he started staying in his apartment after work and staring at the wall. No amount of sheer delight in terror, no number of stutters and adamant refusal to acknowledge the  _ very  _ wrong right before one’s eyes was worth dying before the culmination of every wish of the Stranger. He still had a computer, still had some sort of window to the outside world that he could carry about the dreadful with. Videos where he progressively changed and became  _ wrong _ ? Blogs that slowly shifted from the benign to the grotesque? Infiltrating taxidermy forums with his own Stranger touched ideas on what the art truly meant?

Maybe Max Mustermann should look into online college. It was a passing thought he had while unlocking his door after a day of rooting around in department files and smiling too wide at anyone who had the guts to question him, and it was a very unexpected one. He remembered college in a distant sort of way- always so many people around that saw him day in and day out, so many new things to learn and new things to try, an endless supply of stimulation and knowledge for the taking. The whole class ( _ an affectionate term for his fellows- couldn’t think of Jan Novak without thinking of her as a classmate before a fellow Stranger _ ) had two runs through the whole experience- Max Mustermann did not want to think about the first try, the first semester. So he did not.  _ Anatomy, Physiology, and Pathology for Complementary Therapy _ was hardly a thing of any use to him, St. Mary’s College a blight upon his experience with higher education ( _ another funny joke- Max Mustermann liked to think he was good at those, though not nearly as uproarious as Nikola. She was a clown though, perfectly cut out for humor, so he gave himself some leeway. Transport cops weren’t exactly known for their stunning humor _ ). 

_ Introduction to Human Anatomy and Physiology _ still rolled off his tongue like a perfect tune, the most catchy of hooks. A perfect course title, so clearly laying out what the class had needed. They had tried self led learning for a while after St. Mary’s, a more hands on approach than anything King's College would have ever permitted, but then there had been eight of them. Hunters made Max Mustermann just a bit jumpy for more than just the knowledge that they could decimate his body in a way no other being could. So the class had flocked to the college, had forced their way into the system and disposed of enough contradicting details to get pushed into a class on short notice, and so they had met Dr. Lionell Elliot.

Max Mustermann smiled whenever the thought of the man came up. In particularly quiet moments, he wondered if he could dig up the man’s contact information and give him a call. The class had left a thank you note, yes, and a proper gift for all he had done, but he knew he couldn’t ever quite express the proper appreciation for what Dr. Elliot had taught him. Perhaps a front row seat for the greatest show of a lifetime? An invitation to the wax museum so close to the Eye’s domain that it made his teeth ache, a chance to properly show the doctor all he had done for the class, for him? No. Maybe a simple house call and a good chat- he was sure the doctor would appreciate how Max Mustermann had gotten better at navigating conversations and human interactions than the days of teeth apples and beating hearts ( _ though he still thought the tooth apple was a  _ good  _ gift. One of the molars had been his own, popped out just like a particularly stubborn fingernail _ ). 

He knew his smile best resembled the doctor’s own, as little as the class had seen it. So did his tendency to drum his fingers on whatever nearby surface, and constantly shift his weight from one foot to another. Back when he was taking the course, Max Mustermann mimicked Dr. Elliot because he was, to him, the proper example of a human. He was a source of knowledge, one far better than Dr. Risheed Sidana had ever been, and one too meek to ever directly confront their strangeness while utterly horrified- a dream came true. He understood better now, recognized that what he thought of the doctor’s smile was really a nervous gritting of the teeth, the handful of mannerisms he’d adapted all expressions of suppressed anxiety and dread. Still, there was sentimental value there, and he found a bit of humor in the contrast between such a nervous countenance and the schadenfreudic delight he would take in others’ discomfort, all the tells of a man who talked when he didn’t know what else to do yet his own personal leaning towards letting others flounder in trying to lead conversations. 

He wondered if Dr. Elliot ever went to pawnshops. He had started out of necessity, searching out the few things he absolutely needed, but there was a small joy in visiting the one near his shop before the man in the crowd had thoroughly put him off any outgoings. Pawing through the discarded pieces of another’s life, knowing there was so much sentiment and loss in one building. The atmosphere- so many objects with so many stories nobody would ever know- made him think of The Trophy Shop. Max Mustermann’s oddities had always leaned more towards the anatomical and bodily, the Anglerfish just about on the opposite spectrum of the Stranger’s expressions of horror, but there was a comfort in the horrible shop. What did the doctor think of taxidermy? 

He  _ had _ seemed like a fainthearted coward, even from the very start. Someone who didn’t have much room in his mind for anything beyond his studies, who rejected anything he saw as peculiar as he quailed away with fear. In the hours outside of the station, Max Mustermann hummed, stared at the wall as he linked his hands together and apart, together and apart, and wondered at the feasibility of a trip back up to London. He would return there in time regardless- the grand Unknowing was approaching so fast that it made him near dizzy with anticipation, and he knew he would not,  _ could  _ not miss it- but he wondered if he would have enough time to fit in a courtesy call to the doctor before he was required among the performance. 

Any request he put in for time off would be approved in an instant- would be a relief to his coworkers, to get away from the office creep for a bit. Maybe he could say there was some family emergency. The thought made him cough out a chuckle, tighten his grip on a too long finger in a too long space of time. Yeah, that could be real funny. 

Max Mustermann wondered what sort of music the doctor liked. Maybe later, after the world was unmade and the scattered pieces of it thrown all about, reflecting in the baleful, beautiful light of the Stranger’s heart, maybe then he could gather up the class and settle down to listen to the doctor just like old times. Strangers weren’t meant to be beings fueled by any sort of nostalgia- and Max Mustermann wasn’t, he delighted in the strange and alien and utterly impossible as much as his classmates- but Strangers were good with a peculiar sort of sentiment. He’d seen the Delivery Men with hands clasped together, the over familiar familiarity Nikola approached everything and everyone with, and the class itself, all proof in the pudding ( _ the Anglerfish he couldn’t quite pin down, though that might be because it had a bit of a stick up its ass. Had a real strange sense of humor, dry in a way that had Max Mustermann near coughing up a lung in the few chance meetings they had _ ). 

Doctor Lionell Elliot seemed like the sort who liked to collect records, stuffy old things for a stuffy old man. Maybe they could go to whatever pawnshop was closest to his house and look together before everything was reborn. That sounded nice.


End file.
